


Five Times Steve Rogers Slept With the Avengers

by edibleflowers



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve finds different ways to relate to his new teammates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Steve Rogers Slept With the Avengers

**Author's Note:**

> I've been struggling with my writing lately, and this is an attempt to get back on track just a little. Set after the movie.

Tony smells like grease and oil and metal, like the things he makes and the things he uses to make. Steve never thought he'd find smells like that arousing, but after the first time Tony crowds up against him on the sofa in his workroom and kisses him, Steve can't get enough of it.

"This OK," Tony asks in a low, hot voice, and Steve laughs and pulls him down on top of him.

Steve may not have a lot of experience, but what he lacks, he makes up for in enthusiasm. He knows how to use his hands and his mouth to bring pleasure; Bucky even taught him a few tricks, long before the war, on a moonlit rooftop in Brooklyn. When he strips off Tony's shirt, revealing the glowing circle centered in his chest, he just smiles and covers it with his hand. Blue light leaks out between his fingers; Tony's smile is more radiant still.

* * *

Steve decides to buy himself a camera. Doing research, he's shocked by the prices of high-end models, but he wants to have something he can use for references in his art. (He hesitates to call himself an artist, though his hands are often drawn to create when he has nothing else to do.) Because he's still catching up and doesn't want to be tricked into paying more than necessary, he asks Natasha if she'll help him shop for the right camera.

"Only if you call me Natasha instead of ma'am," she replies. He blushes a little but agrees to the deal.

They spend an enjoyable afternoon in a store full of cameras and all kinds of accessories. Steve finally picks out a good digital SLR, some lenses, a flash and a case, and Natasha glares at the salesman to ensure that Steve isn't overcharged.

Later that evening, Natasha consents to let Steve experiment with the camera using herself as a subject. When she unbuttons her blouse, Steve's hands begin to shake. Her jeans puddle to the floor, and he forgets about the camera entirely.

* * *

It takes Steve a little while to trust that Clint is fully recovered from his possession. He remembers the effects the tesseract had on the Red Skull and his minions, and he imagines that manipulation by a trickster god isn't something that can be shrugged off lightly.

When Clint seems particularly restless one afternoon, Steve suggests they go down to the gym and spar. Clint flashes him a suspicious look, and Steve tries to make a joke of it: "I'll go easy on you."

"We'll see," Clint replies, a sudden grin transforming his face.

Though they're far from equally matched -- Steve taller and stronger, more resilient, to Clint's more compact and wiry frame -- Clint has a few surprising moves of his own. It doesn't help that Steve hasn't had much hand-to-hand training; although he went through basic and saw a lot of combat, he was generally able to overpower any enemies by sheer strength. Clint's agile, using Steve's strength against him, and Steve finds himself laid out on the mat more than once.

When he gets angry and powers Clint down to the floor, Clint's grin turns sly. "Thought you'd never ask," he says, and kisses Steve. It's teasing at first, but it turns powerful in moments. Clint's eager mouth gives Steve an entirely new appreciation of the archer.

* * *

He may believe only in the Christian deity, but Steve has to admit there's something intimidating about being on a team with a being so powerful he could easily be regarded as a god. Fortunately, Thor makes it easy to be around him; when they're not fighting, he's relaxed and warm, a sparkling good humor dancing in his eyes. Steve can almost forget that in ancient times, the Norse worshipped him for the thunderstorms he brought.

The best part is that Thor can match him drink for drink without feeling the effects. They sit together on the roof of Stark Tower, watching the sky deepen from pale blue to hazy pink and startling magentas nearly blood-hued as the blazing sun disappears beyond the horizon line. Thor's curious about wine -- he normally mostly drinks Asgardian ales and mead, apparently -- so Steve takes it on himself to research a little (with Tony's help picking out good vintages), and they taste-test their way through eight or nine bottles. White and red, rose and chardonnay, sauvignon blanc and merlot: by the end of it, Steve's actually feeling the slightest bit woozy.

Thor wraps an arm around Steve's shoulders in the elevator, his smile warm and pleased, and Steve goes with it. When they emerge into Steve's quarters, he turns and tugs on Thor's belt, walking him back into the bedroom. The smile widens and Steve pushes in to kiss it. Thor is warm and tastes deliciously of wine. Steve grins to himself at the blasphemous thought of worshiping Thor in a whole new way, and then they're falling back to the bed, laughter ringing out like thunder.

* * *

Steve tends to feel a lot of misplaced guilt every time he's around Bruce. He knows it's not his fault; he's not the one who invented the super-serum, and no one forced Bruce to test what he thought to be a replication of the formula on himself. Still, knowing the burden Bruce now lives with, Steve can't help the ugly feeling that it's all somehow his fault.

There's that sense of walking on eggshells around Bruce, too; he hates that he feels this way, but he can't help but worry about triggering the Hulk, even if Bruce has shown remarkable control in either form. This afternoon, the third time Steve has all but tiptoed around behind the couch in the gigantic media room, though -- Bruce is sprawled there, absorbed in a documentary about polar wildlife -- he finally hears a snort from the enormous curved sofa.

"I'm not going to jump on you for walking around," he says, rolling his eyes. "Give me _some_ credit."

"Sorry," Steve says, and then to make up for it, he sits down with Bruce, sharing out the bag of popcorn he'd just made in the microwave and a couple of bottles of beer. (Alcohol might not impair him in any way, but he'd developed a taste for Guinness during his days with the Howling Commandos, and he feels more sociable over a beer than a bottle of water.)

When Bruce nods off against Steve's shoulder, he gathers him in without a second thought. Bruce seems so small like this, sunk into himself, only snoring a little. Steve tugs off Bruce's glasses and sets them on the coffee table. As the documentary's narrator drones on, Steve droops, too, feeling surprisingly at ease.


End file.
